


8-Iron

by CatLovePower



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Concussions, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Riggs is sick - hangover, he says - but crime doesn't wait and there are still bad guys to catch. Sickfic/mini casefic.





	

Riggs seemed off the moment he stepped out of the elevator. More off than usual. The shades he wore inside didn't quite mask the dark bags under his eyes, and he seemed even scruffier, if that was possible.  
  
"Uh-uh," Murtaugh said, raising both hands. "If you're sick you're not going anywhere near me."  
  
"Hangover," Riggs placated. "I'm fine."  
  
"You don't look fine on your best days, buddy..."  
  
"Why do you care anyway," Riggs grumbled.  
  
And that hurt a bit because Murtaugh thought they had something. Trust, whatever. Riggs was even more complicated than his teenage daughter. At least when he was acting all crazy and hyper it was easier to understand him and hate him for being so reckless. Here he was out of his depth, big time.  
  
"What's up with you today? You never snap. You're not the snapping type."  
  
"Let's not talk, okay? Headache." Riggs cut him off not too gently.  
  
"Whatever you say. But you're not driving!"  
  
And when Riggs didn't object or anything, that was his second clue that something was wrong with his partner on that fine morning.

 

  
  
They were called on scene at Hancock Park for a dead body. A normal Tuesday.  
  
They both gasped when the officer raised the black tarp covering the mangled remains of what had been a young Hispanic male.  
  
The body looked nothing like normal Tuesday dead meat; the poor guy had been chewed on, spat out and left there to rot. This explained the smell. And the flies.  
  
Murtaugh grimaced but stayed stoic, but Riggs blanched, then turned around and retched near the dumpster. That was uncharacteristic of a man who could stomach anything, then make a joke about it.  
  
"Your partner okay?" a concerned beat cop asked.  
  
"Bad chili, nothing to worry about." Murtaugh said with a laugh, because Riggs would have wanted to save face. He had a daredevil reputation to uphold.  
  
"What does it look like to you?" the policeman asked.  
  
"Animal attack?" Murtaugh ventured. "Alligator maybe?"  
  
"That's what we thought too, but here?"  
  
The mangled remains were found by an old lady taking out the trash in an alleyway. There was no real body of water nearby, no zoo either. Maybe there was a private collector with freaky beasts full of teeth in his backyard.  
  
Riggs came back, looking half dead - maybe two thirds dead.  
  
"We got a name on hamburger meat here?"  
  
His attempt at humor didn't go unnoticed and several eyebrows were raised but no one commented. The guy did look like hamburger, some parts red and sinewy, still oozing blood.  
  
"No ID, no keys, nothing. We found this, but there is nothing on it." The officer raised a blank rectangle, wallet size, a little thicker than a business card.  
  
"Uuuh, mystery..." Riggs said, but his excitement seemed faked.  
  
Murtaugh took the card, feeling the smooth plastic surface for any bumps or depressions that could have a hidden meaning.  
  
"Maybe there is an electronic chip in it. Or it's UV light reactive. Or..." The officer blabbered, and his excitement didn't seem fake at all. Too many CSI episodes, probably.  
  
"There's grass under his shoes," Riggs commented from where he stood. He kept a distance from the corpse, and he looked a little green in the face.  
  
"So what, you think they're experimenting with new, living obstacles on the golf course?"  
  
"It's really close."  
  
Tag and bag. Canvas the neighborhood. Look for a misplaced alligator. All that could be done by beat cops. Murtaugh pocketed the card, thanked the officer and pushed Riggs towards the car.  
  
His partner's hair was flat and saggy. Sad hair was a very bad sign indeed. He fell more than he sat down in the passenger seat.  
  
"There's some Tylenol in the glove box. Take a couple."  
  
Seeing Riggs' questioning glance, he added, "I think I prefer hyper you to miserable you."  
  
"I fancy a little stroll on a golf course, don't you?" Riggs said in that theatrical voice he used when he was getting in character. Once again, it hurt a bit, deep down, in a confused sort of way. That he had to play pretend when it was just the two of them.  
  
Golf course it was, then. It really felt like bringing a dog where they were forbidden, knowing pretty well that it would dig holes and shit on someone's shoes.

 

  
As it turned out, sick Riggs could be surprisingly mellow and polite. Looking like a disheveled lunatic with a perfect smile was apparently a pretty good way to inspire pity in rich old ladies. Murtaugh left him being cooed at and pampered by three old vamps at the restaurant's bar, looking worse for wear but still able to function, and hopefully to find the door that the mysterious card opened.  
  
The director of the golf had accepted to receive him, in a show of good faith, since they had "absolutely nothing to hide." Considering they had little chance to find their elusive reptile in an office, Murtaugh was just hoping to distract the director long enough for Riggs to snoop around.

 

  
  
He was shaking the director's hand and apologizing for the inconvenience when his phone rang. Riggs.  
  
"You better not be sipping martinis when I come down."  
  
Riggs shushed him, and then whispered, "The key card worked. I got eyes on pretty suspicious activity back there."  
  
"Back where? Riggs, don't you dare going in without..."  
  
"Too late, partner," Riggs whispered, barely audible over the phone.  
  
"Where are you? Don't..."  
  
"Meet me around back, where they keep the... uh, things."  
  
"What things?" Murtaugh was losing patience.  
  
"The golf carts," Riggs finally said.  
  
"Are you sure you're alright? If I need to haul your ass from..."  
  
"I'm fine, remember."  
  
"Fine, my ass," Murtaugh grumbled.  
  
"You're quite anal this morning, partner. Something you want to discuss?" Riggs chirped over the phone, sounding like his normal self.  
  
"I see the Tylenol finally kicked in..."  
  
Then he heard the tone and realized Riggs had hung up on him. Just perfect. Riggs and stealth didn't actually go hand in hand, but what could go wrong...

 

  
  
Lots of things apparently, considering the sight that greeted him when he came round the main building. There, the green grass of the golf course pretended not to be too out of place in the L.A. sun, and in the distance, he saw Riggs, running away from three men wearing overalls.  
  
They disappeared behind the slope, and Murtaugh cursed internally his spastic partner and his incredible power to find trouble. He really didn't want to run. He started a light stroll towards the sand bunker, but took his gun out of his holster when he heard screams.  
  
When he reached the top of the grassy slope, he was relieved to hear Riggs laugh. One of the bad guys was holding his ear, still screaming, and Riggs had blood all over his face.  
  
"He bit me!" He sounded outraged.  
  
"¡ Qué demonios !" Another one signed himself.  
  
"Alligator smugglers," Riggs said, grinning madly. "They got a warehouse full of critters and things with teeth."  
  
The third guy, the one not currently holding his ear or talking to Jesus in Spanish, chose this moment to attack with a golf club. He charged Riggs and hit him behind the knees. Murtaugh grimaced and hurtled down the slope, forced to look where he put his feet.  
  
Riggs and the crazy golfer were now scrapping in the sand. There was no way he could get a clean shot. He handcuffed the injured one while the other took his chance and made a run for it.  
  
"Come on, Riggs!" It felt like cheering for your favorite during a cockfight.  
  
Then the smuggler punched Riggs in the eye. Murtaugh took a shot and missed. The bad guy managed to get a grip on his iron. The swing wasn't even that violent, but Riggs went down hard and fell in the shallow pond.  
  
The second time was the charm and Murtaugh's bullet hit him in the shoulder.  
  
Riggs wasn't coming back up. He floated midwater like a dead starfish. Face down. Fear gripping him, Murtaugh trudged the muddy water to get a grip of his drenched jacket. He hauled him back to shore, terribly aware that he was not breathing.

He tried to recall first aid lessons but his thoughts were all jumbled. He put his hands on Riggs' too still thorax, trying to remember the good position. Pushed. Once, twice, still not sure.  
  
Something must have worked because Riggs sputtered and coughed water.  
  
"That's it, breathe." Murtaugh cooed.  
  
Riggs flailed a bit and tried to sit up. Murtaugh propped him up and took out his phone, luckily not waterlogged.  
  
"What were you thinking, Riggs? Trying to kill yourself in two feet of water, really?"  
  
"I wasn't..." But he had to stop talking to cough some more. Blood was trickling down his face.  
   
"I know, buddy. You scared me."  
  
Murtaugh patted him awkwardly on the chest, just to reassure himself.

 

  
  
Paramedics and backup took longer than Murtaugh would have liked to arrive. Soon, the police was trampling the golf course and there were sirens and lights everywhere, much to the delight of the older patrons in the restaurant.  
  
The last accomplice was found in the cart hangar, along with a dozen of exotic animals that had no business being on American soil.  
  
It took two very patient paramedics to manhandle Riggs back to the main building, then out of his wet clothes. Clearly out of it, he was adamant he didn't want to go to the hospital. Murtaugh couldn't blame him.  
  
He hovered while they checked his head. A black eye was starting to blossom below his left eye, and they closed his head wound with butterfly stitches.  
  
"He has a concussion," the younger paramedic explained to Murtaugh, "but if you monitor him for 24 hours, make sure he's still coherent, he can stay out of the hospital."  
  
"Coherent..."  
  
"I'm fine," Riggs repeated, but even he didn’t believe his own lies.  
  
"He has a slight fever," the second paramedic added.  
  
"It's a hangover." Riggs sounded clogged and miserable.  
  
"Doubtful. So make sure he eats a bit and drinks a lot..."  
  
"That I can do," Riggs peeped.  
  
"... Fluids, no alcohol." That earned him a frown and a pout from Riggs.

 

 

Much later, he had been brought "home" - Murtaugh's home, not that hellhole of a trailer - fed and checked over. They were in the middle of a debate about the type of golf club used to brain him. It was clear that he knew nothing about golf, so he fell asleep on the couch and effectively put an end to the conversation.  
  
He had such a content smile on his battered face that Trish couldn't even be mad about the danger or the disruption of their evening.  
  
"Remember what I said about that dog," she still told Roger.  
  
"What, he's not a dog..."  
  
They looked at Riggs in silence for a moment.  
  
"He's more like a cat. Doesn't like the attention. Too proud to ask for help."  
  
"Still sharp and destructive," Trish remarked.  
  
Another silence. Then she added with some genuine concern in her voice, "He's too thin. Are you sure he eats enough?"  
  
"What am I now, his mother?" Murtaugh faked indignation. "Let me tell you that his ass is far from skinny when you have to hoist him from a pond."  
  
"Just another Tuesday, you said."  
  
"With Riggs there is no such thing anymore."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a third, longer, fanfic.  
> Let me know what you think, and don't hesitate to send me prompts.


End file.
